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halsins-herbal-underpants · 29 days ago

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A Defiant Garden | Chapter 8

𝘗𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘚𝘰𝘪𝘭

Overview: When Lord Enver Gortash claims a bastard-born nobleman's son (Kade'solyn Southersby) as payment for his father's debts, he expects a pliant pawn: in public, a pretty face for a loveless marriage to improve his image, in private, his own personal political weapon to wield. A protege forged by his own hands. But Kade is not at all what Enver expects: half-drow outcast, idealistic revolutionary, scarred by years of neglect, he carries a spark of fragile defiance Gortash can't seem to drown -- nor resist. Their relationship becomes a battle of wills and reluctant fascination as Kade learns to navigate the manipulative world of Baldurian politics under Gortash's cruel tutelage. Yet even as he's forced to play the game, he refuses to surrender his conscience -- or his belief that the man who once saved him might be worth saving, himself.

Pairing: Gortash x Male half-drow OC (Kade'soyln Southersby) Genre: slow-burn Gothic Romance pre-canon AU CW: May/December relationship, major character death, referenced child abuse/neglect, dub-con, non-con groping

Story updates every Monday! usually :p

CW: suicidal ideation mentioned

In this chapter: Kade has a nightmare that opens up some old wounds for Gortash, shattering the fragile peace between them. Everything begins to unravel for Kade as Gortash disappears just as the Steel Watch goes dangerously unstable. Alarmed, the council's suspicions regarding the Watch vote--and Kade's role in it--start to threaten the boy's position (and possibly freedom.) Was this Gortash's plan all along? Use him both as cover and bait? Kade forces one last confrontation, at the risk of losing everything.

Read on Ao3! or Start at the beginning!

< Chapter 7 || Chapter 9 >

Chapter 8: Poor Soil

Kade stood in the center of the Winter Ball’s glittering chaos, his silver bird mask askew and the brocade coat drowning his slender frame. The chandeliers bled crystalline prisms onto the marble floor, the light shattering into starlit shards that cut his bare feet as he stumbled toward Gortash.

The man stood at the center of the ballroom, resplendent in black and gold, his mask a black crown. “Dance with me,”Gortash said, extending a gloved hand—not a request, but a command woven into velvet—and Kade’s heart soared.

The boy reached for him, his hand trembling, but as their fingers brushed the music warped and screeched, discordant. His mother’s talon-like grip found his arm, her perfume—lilies and bitterness—choking him as she dragged him toward the carriage.

“Did you think he would want you?” she hissed, dragging him backward, her nails drawing blood. “You’ve humiliated us enough.” His sisters materialized like specters, their masks cracked into leering grins, laughing at his naiveté, his earnest heart.

Gortash’s voice cut through the din, low and resonant—but when Kade turned, the man was already retreating into the crowd. His form slipped away, a shadow swallowed by brighter things.

“Come back!” Kade writhed, the plea tearing from him raw and desperate.

“Enver! I’ll dance! I’ll do anything! Please—see me! Don’t leave me alone again—!”

But Gortash turned away, vanishing into the swirl of faceless nobles, their laughter a swarm of locusts devouring the light.

Kade woke with a gasp, the scream still clinging to his lungs. For a heartbeat, he clutched at his throat, disoriented by the absence of the brocade coat, the mask, the icy bite of his mother’s scorn. His fingers lowered, clenched the blankets as he gasped for breath, grounding himself in the real—the scent of lavender linen, the distant creak of floorboards, the cold sweat plastering his hair to his neck.

A dream. A nightmare. That was all.

Moonlight streamed through the arched windows, painting the lavish bedroom in shades of bone and silver. The sheets were damp with sweat, tangled around his legs like chains, his tears hot and salt-bitter on his lips. He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the frantic drum of his heart, and blinked away the remnants of the dream—the ballroom’s splendor, his family’s jeers, Gortash’s indifference.

You’re safe, he told himself, you’re here, you’re—

Then he felt it: the weight of a gaze.

Gortash stood framed in the doorway like a statue hewn from midnight, the hall’s lamplight gilding the edges of his charcoal silk robe, his hair tousled from sleep. The fabric glimmered faintly, threaded with subtle patterns of a black hand, a detail Kade had never noticed before. His bare feet against the stone floor and gently-rumpled appearance gave him an unsettling vulnerability—his usual armor of cold metal and malice stripped away.

“You called my name,” he said, voice rough with something Kade couldn’t discern. “Three times. Each more… desperate than the last.” He stepped into the room, his tone softening, though still hoarse. “Bad dream, rabbit?”

Kade hesitated to explain. The truth felt too naked, dangerously so. The remnants of the dream clung to him—the cold, the shame, the wanting. But the dream’s aftershocks still trembled in his hands, and the words spilled out unbidden, the urge to get them out of his head too strong.

“It was th-the…masquerade,” he admitted, the words spilling in stumbling starts and stops. “The night we met. I…begged you to stay. To—to see me, but you…” He swallowed. “You turned away. It didn’t happen like that, before.”

Gortash paused beside the bed, close enough for Kade to smell the remnants of brandy on his breath, the faint herbal tang of the bath oils still lingering on his skin.

“No? Did I not abandon you to your family’s tender mercies?” His tone was mockingly light, but his eyes were dark, unreadable.

“You were called away, that’s all,” Kade corrected, hating the tremor in his voice. “But you’d noticed; you came to me. You…you saw me that night. Didn’t you? It wasn’t like the dream.”

A beat. The question hung between them, fragile as the moonlight silvering Gortash’s unreadable expression.

“I saw a boy in ill-fitting brocade,” Gortash said, leaning against the bedpost. “Desperate to be noticed. Common enough.”

“Uncommon enough to speak to me,” Kade retorted.

Gortash exhaled. “You were a curiosity,” he said, tone dismissive. “A half-feral thing in borrowed finery. Forgettable.”

“You didn’t forget,” Kade shot back, sharper than he intended. He sat up, the sheets pooling at his waist, his chest bare. The moonlight limned him in silver, turned his hair to starlight. “You remembered enough to use it against me; to manipulate me.”

Gortash’s smirk was a flicker in the dim light—though he didn’t seem to be able to meet Kade’s eyes. “Remembering is not the same as caring.”

“Bullshit—you kept—“ he bit off his words, exhaled a shaking breath, not wanting to argue this late.

Gortash tilted his head, a predator dissecting prey. “Kept what, rabbit? Your blushes? Your stammering praise? You were a novelty. A half-drow bastard with a spine of steel. That’s why I indulged you.”

Kade’s nails dug into his palms. “Then why come here tonight? Why not let me scream myself hoarse?”

“You were loud,” Gortash snapped, but the retort lacked its usual bite. He turned toward the window, his profile etched in moonlight. “And I dislike interrupted sleep.”

Silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Kade studied the man—the tension in his shoulders, the way his scarred fingers tapped against his folded arm, restless. He’s lying, he realized. He’s lying, and he hates that I know it.

Kade’s breath slowed, calmed. The memory surged—

Thirteen years old, knees raw from the attic’s splintered wood, the windowpane frost-kissed under his trembling palms. The drop wasn’t far, but far enough. He’d counted the seconds in his head, over and over, wondering if the impact would feel like flying or falling. Wondering if anyone would find him before the rats did.

“When I was young—barely out of childhood,” Kade said softly, “I knelt on the attic windowsill every night. Stared at the cobblestones. Wondered if the fall would be the first real choice I ever got to make for myself.” He swallowed, the memory bitter as ash. “But in the end, I didn’t jump. Do you know why?”

Gortash didn’t turn. “Guilt. Fear. The usual rot.”

“Because of you.”

Gortash went very still.

“That night at the ball,” Kade continued, voice steadier now, “when you took my hand…you said, ‘Silver suits you, little bird.’ No one ever called me anything but boy or bastard by then. But you—“ He laughed, wet and broken. “You made me feel seen. And when they dragged me away…I told myself, ‘if he can rise from nothing, so can I.’”

A flicker—a barely-there twitch of Gortash’s jaw.

“’The chains of lineage are forged in fear. Break them.’ Your words,” Kade whispered, “kept me from the ledge. Not Ilmater’s prayers. Yours.”

The admission hung in the air, raw and vivid. For a moment, the moonlight dimmed and the room seemed to hold its breath. Then Gortash turned, his face a mask of cold fury.

“How dare you.”

Kade recoiled.

“You think me your savior?” Gortash closed the distance between them in two strides, his hand snapping out to grip Kade’s chin. “A hero? I am not.” His thumb brushed Kade’s cheek, the gesture incongruously gentle. “I am the man who uses pretty boys like you to carve empires. Your faith is a flaw. Your gratitude a laughable farce.”

Kade flinched, but pressed on. “You did save me. Even if you didn’t mean to.”

Gortash sneered. “Oh, please…” He leaned in, his voice a venomous whisper. “You think your suffering is some sacred tragedy to move me? I’ve met a hundred like you—weaklings clutching their tears like treasure. But you? You’re worse. You fetishize your pain. Dress it in pretty coats and pray it makes you noble.”

Kade jerked free, anger flaring. “And you? What do you dress your pain in, Enver? Ambition? Hatred? Revenge? You’re just as trapped as I was—

“Silence.” Gortash’s hand slammed against the bedpost, the sound cracking through the room. For a heartbeat, his facade slipped—a flash of something wild—feral—in his eyes. “You know nothing of what I endured. What I sacrificed to claw my way out of the dark. What I did to survive!”

“Then tell me!” Kade surged forward, the sheets falling away. He gripped the bedpost, refusing to be cowed. “You keep your past locked away like a relic, but I’ve seen it—the journals, the sketches. You were broken, too, and yes, you survived! But survival alone isn’t living, Enver. It’s just…not dying.”

The words hung, sharp and reckless, in the air. Gortash went still. Then in a sudden motion his grip found Kade’s throat, yanking him closer—not enough to hurt, but enough to make a point: it could.

“You think you know me?” he hissed, breath hot with brandy. “You think your pity unearths some buried saint?”

Kade didn’t flinch, though his teeth clenched and his hand instinctively groped for Gortash’s wrist. “I think you’re afraid,” he breathed. “Afraid that if you stop hating long enough to feel, you’ll crumble.”

For a heartbeat, Gortash’s fingers tightened—a threat, a plea. Then he released him as if burned, stepping back and turning to go in one quick motion.

Kade’s breath hitched and he rushed forward, recklessly grabbing Gortash’s wrist. “Why did you even come here?” He demanded, voice bruised and shaking. “Why care if I scream?”

Gortash paused, his fingers flexing into a fist, anger surging—then after a beat the man deflated, his rage bleeding out of him. “I don’t.” His voice was soft, raw, even as his lips thinned into a cruel line. “You’re a tool. A means. Nothing more.”

The lie was brittle, transparent. Kade saw it in the way Gortash’s gaze dropped to his lips, in the ragged edge of his breath. He’s afraid, he realized. Afraid of this—of us.

“Is that all I am?” Kade stepped closer, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. His grip softened; thumb tracing the man’s pulse beneath his wrist. “A tool?”

“What else?” Gortash’s voice dropped, almost bitter.

“A mirror.”

The words hung between them, perilous and real. Gortash’s hand flexed in Kade’s grip. “You presume to know what you see.”

“I see you,” Kade breathed. He lifted his other hand to trace those slender fingertips against Gortash’s jaw. The man shuddered, staring down at him, but didn’t move.

“Don’t I…?”

Gortash nearly flinched, Kade’s voice so soft and earnest it hurt, his eyes reflecting the tyrant’s face in violet and amethyst colors. He swallowed hard, silent—then shook Kade’s hand off roughly, spinning to stalk towards the exit.

“Enver—“

“Enough.” The word was a slamming lid. “Next time you scream, do it quietly.”

He left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Kade slumped against the bedpost, exhaustion and hope warring in his chest. In the garden below, the moonlace trembled in the wind, their petals glowing faintly—a fragile, stubborn light.

______

Down the hall, Gortash leaned against the wall, his fingers pressed to his eyes. The boy’s words echoed, unbidden:

You made me feel seen.

Your words kept me from the ledge. Not Ilmater’s prayers. Yours.

I see you…don’t I?

Fool, he thought. Fool.

Sentiment is a noose. A cancer.

But the mantra cracked, fissured by a name screamed in the dark—Enver, Enver, Enver—and the unbearable truth that empathy, once sown, could root itself even in stone.

Ever since the night of the dream, Gortash had become a ghost in his own manor—vanishing before dawn, returning long after midnight, if at all. Some nights, Kade lay awake listening for the echo of boots on marble, or hovered near the stairs waiting for the clink of a decanter in the study. It never came.

Breakfasts, when they happened, were taut and wordless. Gortash would sip his coffee, eyes fixed on reports, while Kade picked at his food, the air between them thick with things unsaid. Once, Kade reached for the sugar bowl just as Gortash moved to refill his cup. Their fingers brushed—and both recoiled as if burned.

You ran to me when I screamed in the dark, Kade wanted to say. You shivered at my bedside like a man haunted. And now you can’t even look at me.

But the words withered to dust in his throat.

And the few times his courage rallied, Kade would open his mouth—that night, what you said, what I meant—only for Gortash to abruptly leave; to snap a missive shut or murmur some excuse about business at Wyrm’s Rock, his gaze sliding past Kade’s shoulder as if the boy were a nothing more than a stranger.

The rejection stung, sharp and inexplicable.

Had he misread everything? Had the vulnerability in Gortash’s eyes that night been nothing but another manipulation, a feint in their endless game?

Kade sat at the lengthy mahogany table in the dining room, picking at a plate of honeyed figs that had long gone cold. It was one of the rare moments they were both at the breakfast table at the same time, but it hardly mattered in the end. Gortash barely glanced up from his correspondence, his gold-cuffed fingers tapping absently against the stem of his wineglass, the silence between the two of them thick enough to choke on.

The clink of silverware was the only sound—no debates, no lessons, no subtext-laced flirtations. Just the weight of everything still unsaid pressing down on them like a burial shroud.

When Kade dared to speak—“The council is asking about the Watch’s patrols in the Outer City. There were…incidents.”—Gortash merely hummed, flipping a page.

“Handle it.”

Kade glowered. As if he hadn’t been handling it. As if he weren’t the one standing between the Steel Watch’s brutality and the council’s wrath, his silver tongue turning to lead in his mouth with every lie he spun.

Ravengard’s eyes had grown colder each time Kade offered excuses. “The Watch is still adjusting to its protocols.” “The Flaming Fist will oversee corrections.” Lies, all of it. The Steel Watch didn’t adjust. It obeyed. And its orders came from one man—a man who hadn’t so much as looked at Kade in days.

The council chambers had become a thorn briar for Kade to navigate, branches lashing small cuts into him every day. The Steel Watch had warped into a scourge—overzealous, brutal, their mechanical hands crushing dissent and innocence alike. Kade had spun lies like silk, his voice calm, soothing—oversight, adjustments, temporary measures—but without Gortash’s presence, his words rang hollow.

Kade stood before Duke Ravengard in the chamber, his reassurances turning to ash in his mouth as the man’s glare sharpened, his patience all but at an end. "You promised oversight," he growled, his voice like gravel under a bootheel. "Instead, we have automatons kicking in doors and cuffing children in the street for throwing rocks. Where is Gortash?"

Later in a private alcove, the Duke’s fury was living thing, his voice a thunderclap across the marble floors as he cornered Kade after another hollow debate. "You swore they’d protect the vulnerable,"he growled, fingers biting into Kade’s forearm. "Not butcher them!"

Kade’s confidence flickered, his words insubstantial, without weight. Without Gortash’s presence, his influence waned; the lords who once simpered at his silver-tongued lies now eyed him like a cornered rat. Even Florrick’s sympathy had hardened into suspicion.

"You’re either a fool or an accomplice," she hissed, tossing a report of another "accidental" maiming onto the table between them. "Which is it?"

The unspoken accusation hung in the air: You’re his puppet. And he’s left you to dance on the strings alone.

Kade’s palms grew damp, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. The fear coiled in his gut—had Gortash orchestrated this? Let him play the charming diplomat only to hang him with the noose of his own lies?

The vote was the final straw. A minor trade amendment, barely worth the parchment it was scribbled on—but Gortash had been explicit: Secure it. The patriars’ concessions will grease the wheels for the next phase. Yet when the scribe called the roll, Kade’s seat stood empty.

Gortash’s precious machinations could stutter to a halt for all he cared. Kade hoped he choked on his rage.

He spent the afternoon in the garden instead, tearing weeds from the soil with bare hands, the duskthistles trembling in the breeze as if whispering coward, coward.

Gortash never came.

Kade paced the length of his chambers, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with every agitated step. The room, bathed in the pallid glow of a guttering oil lamp, seemed to constrict around him—velvet drapes heavy with dust, the air thick with the cloying scent of dried lavender.

Outside, the Steel Watch patrolled the grounds, their mechanical joints screeching like butchered pigs, a cacophony that grated against his already unraveling nerves. Every metallic groan echoed the turmoil in his chest.

He hadn’t seen Gortash in days—not truly. Only glimpses: the sweep of his obsidian coat vanishing into a waiting carriage, the echo of his boots in the hall long after midnight, the untouched breakfast left to congeal at the dining table, egg yolks hardening in their porcelain dish. Avoidance.

And Kade was sick of it.

Suddenly a knock shattered the silence; Kade froze mid-step, his breath catching, expression hopeful.

“My lord,” came the steward’s muffled voice through the oak door, “Lord Gortash has returned. He’s retired to his chambers.”

His pulse spiked—a wild, reckless thing. Finally.

He didn’t bother with a robe. He stormed down the hall in nothing but his sleep shirt and smallclothes, the linen clinging to his sweat-damp frame, his hair a disheveled cascade of silver over his shoulders. The manor’s shadows stretched long and skeletal, lamplight flickering. He halted at Gortash’s door, his hand hovering over the handle.

What if he turns me away?

The thought struck like a blade of ice between his ribs. But the anger—hot and searing—burned it away.

He shoved the door open without knocking.

Gortash stood at the window, his silhouette a sharp cutout against the moonlit sprawl of Baldur’s Gate below. He hadn’t even bothered to undress—still clad in his council finery, the high-collared coat straining across the breadth of his shoulders, its delicate embroidery catching the dim light and glittering. His gauntlets lay discarded on the desk beside a half-empty bottle of brandy, their metal fingers curled as if still grasping for something. He didn’t turn.

"You’re supposed to be in bed," he said, his voice rough, disused by too many nights of silence.

Kade’s nails bit into his palms, the sting grounding him. "And you’re supposed to be here. Not hiding at Wyrm’s Rock like a coward."

A beat of silence. Then Gortash snorted, the sound devoid of humor. "Is that meant to be an insult?"

“It’s meant to be an accusation.” Kade stepped forward, the carpet swallowing his footsteps. “You’re avoiding me.” His voice wavered, betraying the hurt beneath the fury.

“I’m working.” A sip of brandy, deliberate. “Unlike some, I don’t have the luxury of tending gardens and brooding.”

The barb landed true, a painful cut. Kade flinched and then clenched his fists. “The council is days from arresting me, Enver! The Watch isn’t just patrolling—it’s maiming. Ravensgard isn’t buying my excuses anymore, they’re going to lock me up for false promises—promises you forced me to make. Florrick’s son nearly lost an arm—”

“Then lie better.”

“I am lying!” The words tore free, sharp and tearful “But they know. They see it. And you—” He exhaled raggedly, his voice cracking. “You’re not even there.”

Gortash finally turned, his expression unreadable. “Is that what this is? You need hand-holding?”

“I need you to look at me!”

Silence.

Kade’s breath came fast, his chest tight; he strode forward, stopping right in front of Gortash. The man didn’t flinch, but his nostrils flared slightly as he stared down impassively.

“Is this it, then?” Kade snapped. “You’re throwing me to the wolves, letting me drown in the mess you created? If you want me gone that badly—if I’m too much of a liability now that I’ve seen past the tyrant—” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard.

"…Is this your way of getting rid of me?"

Moonlight carved Gortash’s face into something stark—dark circles smudged beneath his eyes, stubble shadowing his jaw, his usually immaculate hair tousled as though he’d raked restless fingers through it for hours. He looked—

Tired.

Kade’s breath hitched.

“If I wanted you gone,” Gortash said softly, “you’d be gone.”

The words should have been a threat. Instead, they sounded like a confession.

Kade’s chest ached. "Then why?" He took another step closer, the space between them charged like the moment before lightning strikes. "Why vanish? Why leave me to clean up your mess while you—" He gestured wildly at the bottle, the disarray of the room. "—hide in here like a child?"

Gortash’s expression darkened, a storm gathering behind his eyes. "You overstep."

"I overstep?" Kade laughed, brittle as shattered glass. "You dragged me into this. You made me your voice in that council. And now, when they’re ready to hang me for your crimes, you can’t even look at me?"

Something flickered in Gortash’s gaze—guilt, maybe, or fear. He turned back to the window, his shoulders rigid. “You’re not in danger. Ravensgard won’t touch you.”

"Because you’ll protect me?" Kade’s voice dripped with venom. "Like you’ve been doing so well lately?"

"Because you’re mine." The words snapped like a whip. Gortash’s hands clenched at his sides, the tendons standing stark against his skin. "And no one touches what’s mine."

The declaration might have meant to be comforting. It wasn’t.

Kade’s throat tightened. "I’m yours. Like an object. A possession—” He exhaled, fighting against the aching pain that radiated through his chest, that threatened to bring tears to his eyes. “A tool, after all.”

Gortash didn’t answer.

The hurt was a physical thing, a knife twisting deeper. A bitter laugh left Kade’s throat, abrupt and startling.

“And there it is. I thought that we’d finally…I thought we were …” We were finally understanding one another—so I thought. How many lies have I told myself…?

He breathed out shakily, words trailing off as he dropped his gaze, pale hair slipping to hide his eyes. His voice mumbled, rueful, rough.

“Well. It doesn’t really matter anymore.”

The words hung between them, fragile as the dust motes swirling in the slanted moonlight. Kade could see the exact moment they landed—a minute twitch beneath Gortash's right eye, the way his breathing shallowed just perceptibly. Kade's own pulse thundered in his ears as he watched Gortash's fingers flex unconsciously, the moonlight catching his scars in relief.

He swallowed hard, the click of his throat painfully loud in the stillness. "Fine."

His voice came out steadier than he felt, each word measured like steps across thin ice. "If that's all this is—" he gestured between them with a trembling hand, "—if I'm just another tool in your workshop, then I can be easily replaced; like any tool.” Just another broken cog in your grand design, stripped and tossed without a thought.

His eyes snapped up to meet Gortash's, wide and bright with unshed tears that caught the candlelight, making them glisten like cut gemstones. A trembling fear burned in his chest as he took half a step forward, close enough now to see the flecks of copper in Gortash's darkened irises, to smell the bergamot cologne clinging to his coat, the faint acrid tang of the forge—his scent, forever connected in Kade’s mind.

"Give me one good reason not to leave," he demanded, voice dropping to something raw and intimate. "Right now."

The grandfather clock in the corner ticked, deafening seconds counting away as Kade waited, his nails digging crescents into his palms. Some foolish, hopeful part of him willed Gortash to reach out, to say something—anything—that would prove Kade was more than just another pawn on his political chessboard.

Tell me to stay. Tell me I'm more. Prove me wrong.

Gods, please.

The man didn’t say a word.

Kade felt something crack inside him, and he spun before his trembling chin or suddenly overflowing eyes could be seen and judged as weakness. No more of that. He didn’t—couldn’t—say anything, just began walking to the door, his only thought on putting one foot in front of the other.

Gortash went very still, staring at Kade’s retreating back—then his expression abruptly twisted into something painful. His eyes burned as he jolted forward with a frantic, clumsy gait.

"You want a reason?" He covered the distance between them in a handful of strides as Kade paused, turning in confusion. His hand shot out, gripping the boy’s chin, forcing his head up. "Here’s one."

Kade flinched, expecting a blow, a slap, a—

Gortash kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Angry.

Kade gasped against his mouth, eyes widening, the taste of brandy and iron flooding his senses. Gortash’s other hand tangled in his hair, yanking him closer, his body shifting forward to press Kade’s back against the closed door.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was a claim—a surrender—a war fought with teeth and tongue and the bruising grip of hands that had spent a lifetime building walls, only to tear them down for one man.

When Gortash finally pulled away, his breath ragged, his grip on Kade’s jaw didn’t loosen. "That’s your reason," he growled.

Kade’s lips tingled. His pulse roared in his ears.

He kissed me.

He—

Gortash’s expression was unreadable as he lowered his head, his eyes shadowed. "Now get out."

Kade didn’t move. “Wh—what…?”

"I said—"

“Don’t.” Kade interrupted, lifting trembling hands to Gortash’s face, his voice pleading. “Don’t shut me out every time we—”

Suddenly, the man lunged, and Kade felt the door gave way behind him, gravity suddenly gone. He flailed, grasping at Gortash’s coat to steady his balance, but a palm shoved his chest and he sailed backwards to hit the ground hard, the air knocked from his lungs. He lay where he fell, wheezing as the door slammed behind him. The lock clicked quietly.

Kade gasped and scrambled up, pounding the wood with an angry fist. "Coward!"

No answer.

All he could do was return to his room.

Kade stumbled back to his chambers, his breath still uneven; his lips burned from the kiss, the taste of Gortash lingering on his tongue. He slammed the door, the sound echoing in the hollow silence.

For a moment he stood trembling, his hands unclenching to run fingers through his tangled hair, gripping the silver-white strands tight—then with a shrill, frustrated scream he swept his arm across the bedside table. A porcelain vase crashed to the floor, shattering, shards skittering across the marble like fallen stars.

He sank to his knees, his fingers digging into the crown of his hair, clenching tight enough his knuckles blanched.

He kissed me. Kissed me!

And then he threw me out.

A laugh bubbled up in his throat, bitter and broken. Of course. Gortash, always pulling him close only to shove him away, leaving him shredded raw and aching.

He dragged himself to the bed, collapsing onto the sheets, his face buried in the pillows. The scent of bergamot and smoke clung to them, a cruel reminder of the man who had just ruined him.

It was a long time before he fell asleep.

Gortash avoided him the next morning.

But that afternoon, as Kade stood in the council chambers, weathering another barrage of accusations—Ravengard’s voice booming as he called for an investigation into whether Kade had blackmailed council members to secure votes for the Steel Watch—the doors swung open.

Gortash strode in, the perfect display of polished malice; his eyes were fiery, burning hot enough to turn any councilor foolish enough to meet them into ash and bone.

He walked to the middle of the chambers, faced Ravensgard—and with cold, surgical precision, he dismantled every argument.

He produced evidence—documents, witness testimonies, even a confession—of an anti-Watch faction falsifying reports to make the Steel Guard appear more brutal than they were. He outlined new protocols, guarantees that no more innocents would be accosted. And then—

Then—he turned his gaze to the council, his voice silken, smooth and utterly deadly. A warning wrapped in velvet.

"Let me be clear," he said, his eyes locking onto Ravengard’s. "Any further accusations against my associate, any malice even whispered his way, will be treated as a personal affront. And I do not take such things lightly."

The threat hung in the air, heavy and unmissable. Ravengard’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Gortash’s lips curled into a serpent’s smile, words venomous. "Good. Then we understand each other."

And just like that, it was over.

Kade exhaled, his shoulders sagging with relief. Gortash didn’t look at him, but he didn’t have to. The message was clear.

You’re mine.

And I protect what’s mine.

A few days later at dusk, Kade sat cross-legged on a weathered wooden bench, a palette of muted blues and golds balanced on his knee as his brush flicked across the painting in front of him with restless precision. A slash of sickly purple cut the pretty colors in half on the canvas; he’d chosen to paint the sylvanspite vine—the one that had erupted, thorned and poisonous, amid his tender blooms. Its twisting garlands of bruised red and indigo glared back at him from the canvas, a challenge he hadn’t yet decided how to answer.

The garden lay bathed in the amber light of late afternoon, the air crisp with the first whispers of autumn’s approach. Duskthistles bowed their velvet heads, their silver veins dulled by the season’s slow decay, while moonlace petals clung stubbornly to their stems, glowing faintly against the encroaching twilight.

The crunch of gravel announced Gortash’s arrival long before he spoke.

Kade didn’t look up, though his hand stilled mid-stroke. The man’s presence was a disturbance in the air itself—that familiar blend of cologne and forge-grease that made Kade’s jaw tighten and stomach flutter with the ache of want.

“Florrick sent a courier this morning,” Gortash said, his voice uncharacteristically tentative. He lingered at the edge of the garden path, clad in a charcoal tunic devoid of embroidery, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands in his pockets. The absence of armor and gold was jarring, as if he’d shed a skin. “Apologized for her…theatrics. Called them ‘unbecoming.’”

Kade dipped his brush into a smear of burnt umber, dragging it along the canvas to shade the vine’s thorns. “Hm.”

Gortash hovered awkwardly, then lowered himself onto the bench’s far end, the space between them charged like a live wire. He plucked a withered moonlace petal from the ground, twirling it between his fingers. “Ravengard, too. Grudgingly, of course. Said he’d ‘monitor the reforms closely.’”

A breeze stirred the garden, carrying the scent of damp soil and dying blooms. Kade’s brush hovered. “Good for him.”

Silence pooled, thick and uneasy. Gortash shifted, the bench creaking beneath his weight. “The nights are cooling,” he said abruptly, nodding to the moonlace vines. “These won’t last much longer.”

“No.” Kade jabbed the brush into a jar of turpentine, watching the pigment bleed into swirls. “They won’t.”

Gortash exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound caught between frustration and defeat. His gaze swept the garden—the trampled earth where Kade had uprooted the black roses, the defiant clusters of duskthistle still clinging to life. “You’ve made something here,” he said quietly. “Despite me.”

Kade’s throat tightened. He set the brush down, fingers trembling faintly, and reached for a rag to wipe the paint from his hands. The gesture was deliberate, a barrier.

“Plans are advancing,” Gortash continued, his tone shifting into something harder, forged steel beneath soft cotton. “I’ll be needed outside the city more often. The next phase requires…hands-on oversight.” He paused, as if waiting for a reaction. When none came, he forged ahead. “You’ll need to manage the council in my absence. They’ll test you. Especially Voltaire.”

Kade’s laugh was a rasping thing, harsh as broken glass in his throat. “Manage them. Right.” He stood abruptly, canvas clutched to his chest like a shield. “Is that all, my lord? Or would you like to rehearse my lies while you’re at it?”

Gortash rose, blocking his path. “Kade—”

“Don’t.” The word cracked like a whip. “You don’t get to vanish for days, then stroll in and dictate how I’ll clean up your next mess. Not after—” He broke off, his breath ragged.

The admission hung between them, raw and unspoken. Not after the door. Not after the kiss.

Gortash’s hand twitched at his side, as if to reach for him, then fisted. “What would you have me say?”

The question was barely audible.

Kade stared at him—at the stubble shadowing his jaw, the faint scar along his brow usually hidden by carefully styled hair, the exhaustion etched into lines that no amount of power could erase. For a heartbeat, Kade saw not the tyrant, but the boy from the journal: hungry, hurt, clawing his way out of the dark.

“Nothing,” he whispered. “You��ve said enough.”

He stepped around him, the canvas brushing Gortash’s arm as he passed.

“Wait.”

A hand closed around his wrist—not the iron grip of a tyrant, but something tentative, almost pleading. Kade froze.

“The duskthistle,” Gortash said roughly, nodding to the stubborn blooms trembling in the cooling air. “It’s resilient. Thrives in poor soil. A survivor.” His thumb brushed the delicate wrist beneath Kade’s sleeve, a fleeting touch. “Like you.”

Kade closed his eyes. The words were not an apology. Not a promise. But they were something.

He pulled free slowly, letting their fingers graze together in a gesture of acknowledgement, the warmth of Gortash’s hand lingering on his skin like a brand. “I’ll handle Voltaire,” he said, walking away.

Behind him, Gortash stood motionless, the dying light etching his silhouette as the garden held its breath, waiting for the cold.

Kade moved through the manor with practiced grace—polite, composed, and always just out of reach. The servants adored him still; he remembered their names, asked after their families, slipped extra coin to the kitchen boy whose sister was ill. But with Gortash, he was careful. Guarded. His unselfconscious grins, once so quick and bright, were measured now, doled out sparingly like coins from a dwindling purse.

Gortash noticed.

He noticed the way Kade’s smiling face held wary eyes when they spoke, the way he folded his hands neatly in his lap during council meetings instead of fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve—the way he no longer lingered in doorways, hoping for conversation.

He noticed, and it gnawed at him, a hunger he hadn’t known he possessed until it went unfed.

That evening, he found Kade on the balcony, a delicate porcelain cup cradled between his palms, steam curling lazily into the amber light of sunset. The sky bled gold and violet, the first stars pricking through the dusk like scattered pins.

A plate of fresh-baked scones had gone cold, forgotten as he watched the city below—the way the light gilded the spires of Wyrm’s Rock, the distant clamor of the markets winding down for the evening, the first whispers of autumn rustling through the leaves of the garden below.

The door behind him opened and then closed with a quiet click. Footsteps—measured, deliberate—crossed the room before pausing at the threshold of the balcony. Kade didn’t turn, but his fingers tightened imperceptibly around the cup.

Gortash stood there for a moment, silhouetted against the fading light, before stepping forward and lowering himself beside him, the wrought-iron chair scraping softly against the stone. A second cup waited on the tray between them—always set out, just in case, though it had gone unused for months.

He didn’t speak. Neither did Kade. The silence stretched, merely uncomfortable at first, then taut with unspoken words.

Kade exhaled, watching a leaf spiral down from the garden below.

“Fall will be here soon,” he said at last, his voice quiet, “I’ve always loved it. The way the air changes, the colors; everything not quite dying, not yet alive.” He traced the rim of his cup with a fingertip. “Spring, too—the in-between seasons. They suit me, I think. I’ve always been drawn to transitions.”

It was an offering. A small one, but an offering nonetheless.

Gortash studied him—the way the fading light gilded him in molten gold against the silver of his hair, the faint flush the tea had left on his lips. He remembered other evenings like this, Kade chattering about the colors of the leaves, the scent of rain on cobblestones, the way the world felt softer at the edges in autumn.

Back then, he had only half-listened, preoccupied with schemes and scrolls. Now, he hung on every word.

Gortash was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the distant skyline. Then, hesitantly, as if testing the weight of the words, he spoke.

“The first snowfall after…Avernus,” he murmured, “was barely a dusting. Hardly enough to cover the ground. But to me…” His voice roughened, just slightly. “It might as well have been a blizzard.��

Kade turned his head, just enough to see the sharp angle of Gortash’s profile—the way his jaw worked, the uncharacteristic softness in his expression.

“I stayed out in it all day,” Gortash continued, his tone low, almost wondering. “Just…standing there, letting it cover me. Built a—a pile of it, like a child would. I must have looked like a fool.” A huff of laughter, barely there. “Got sick as a dog afterward. Couldn’t speak for a week.”

Kade didn’t respond immediately. The admission hung between them, fragile as the steam rising from the untouched tea. He studied Gortash—the way his hands, usually so sure, so controlled, rested loosely in his lap, the way his shoulders were just slightly less rigid than usual.

“Was it worth it?” he asked softly.

Gortash met his eyes. “Yes.”

The word hung between them, simple and unadorned.

Kade’s lips curved—not the polished smile he’d worn in council chambers, not the guarded half-expression he’d offered these past weeks, but something real. Small, hesitant, but real.

Gortash felt something in his chest loosen.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deepening shades of indigo, the stars multiplying overhead. Neither of them moved to leave. Somewhere below, a nightingale began to sing. The city’s lanterns flickered to life one by one, tiny pinpricks of gold against the gathering dark.

They sat there side by side, in silence, and watched the light return.

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